Making A Necklace

I like to string words together

Like smooth stones on a silk thread

Slide knot slide knot

Though not to adorn myself, but rather

To empty my head of tumbled phrases

I rearrange, change, scratch out

Break the knot, slide off

Break the knot, slide off

Each piece has a design of its own

A circular logic to follow

I try it on, read it out loud

Revisit it again and again

Beginning, middle, end

Beginning, middle, end

Are the words pretty, the colors true

A good match of metaphor and hue?

Pattern, rhythm, thought

Pattern, rhythm, thought

Then it is complete, this strand of words

I finger the gems set just right

If I could wear it, would it sparkle like diamonds?

Or just lie peaceful and earthy

Like smooth stones on silk thread

That I like to string together?

Beware the Shift

Beware the shift

That comes ever so slightly.

You may not even notice,

If you aren't paying attention.

It comes slowly, gradually,

Like sunrise, or better yet,

Sunset - the shift.

No quaking earth or howling wind

Or trumpet blast -

Just a nod, a glance

In a restaurant or a store.

The salesclerk speaks to her first, not you.

The waiter takes her order first,

As if she's the one in charge of things.

Once, you used to stride in,

With her in tow.

Now she walks ahead

And you quicken your pace to keep up.

Men and boys would look you up and down,

Pat her on the head.

Now their eyes are on her

As you fade into the background.

And not that you begrudge her

Their admiring stares.

After all, you take pride

In the beauty she's become.

You just aren't ready to be

Invisible, insignificant.

And you wonder -

Did your mother feel the shift?

The almost imperceptible shift

When you came into your own,

When your prime overshadowed hers,

When your youthful steps

Overtook her careful gait?

It is the natural order of things.

Morning, noon, late afternoon, evening...

Still, the dethroning has a feel of it's own,

When your part in the play changes.

No longer the star, now

Just a character actor,

Relegated to cameos,

Minor to the plot,

Supporting cast,

Watching from the wings

As the ingenue performs,

Her own heir apparent

Watching too, waiting for her turn,

When granddaughter overtakes

daughter.

Will she feel the shift?

It comes ever so slightly.

She may not even notice it,

If she isn't paying attention.

Driving Blindfolded

Driving Blindfolded

We watch her,

With her round belly full, ripe,

Drawing in smoke

To satisfy her urge.

The hyper-informed of us

Throw glances sharp as stone,

To rescue, to cut out

The infant hiding in its nicotine tomb

While its sisters

Cling to their mother's tree trunk thighs

Their cries begging for something -

Snot, like walrus tusks,

Ropes from their noses.

She pauses,

Wipes their mess

With her soiled sleeve.

She lifts them, roughly

One at a time

And crams them into the shopping cart.

"Shut up," she tells them

"There ain't no money for toys."

They are too young for sin.

Too young to climb

Into the back seat of a dirty car

To sweat and pant and

Receive a seed

Planted carelessly and

Without thought

That will grow into a large

Round bump, waiting to be born

Into poverty and fear,

Where school will be a chore, a dread.

And this is where Free Will

Clashes with the God of consequences.

There is no test to take, no license, no permit

No training required

For this the most impossible of jobs - parenting.

Better we should all drive blindfolded,

Than to bring young into the world

To be mistreated.

The casualties would be about the same.

Still, we watch her.

Silently, self-righteously, we watch her.

Who among us would approach her,

Gain her trust, reproach her,

Teach her to do better?

For three little souls

Will grow up to wallow in 

The footsteps set before them,

Repeating the pattern over and over again.

Who will take her on?

Her?  With all her hurts and troubles?

Surely someone else is responsible, more qualified -

What about the church?

Certainly taking on a project this big

Would swamp our boats.  We've got families

Of our own to raise.  And we've all made mistakes, too.

Who are we to cast the first stone?

The two little sisters sitting in the shopping cart

Are quite for a while,

Swallowing Pepsi from sippy cups,

Content to be warm inside the store,

Their noses somewhat clean.

It takes a ton of strength to turn away

From faces smudged with neglect -

To continue shopping, while erasing images

Of those eyes filled with questions.

Those eyes that follow my conscience

All the way home.

"Did you see me and choose to do nothing to help me?"

This is where Free Will

Meets the God of consequences.

I write a donation check to feed the poor,

Ashamed I don't do more.